


A McChristmas Carol

by sleuth



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8979388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleuth/pseuds/sleuth
Summary: "...he was not a sentimental man. He hung no pictures over his desk, nor care for any company. When he walked through the streets no one ever paused to bid him good day, nor did beggars ask of him a single cent, nor did any one every inquire a single thing about McCree."





	1. Chapter 1

Reyes was dead, to begin with.

The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner: McCree.

They had been partners for a decade—McCree had been his sole executer, sole administrator, sole assign, sole residuary legatee, sole friend, and sole mourner. Yet even he was not too distraught by Reyes’s untimely departure. Close though they were, he was first and foremost a businessman, and regarded the funeral with the solemnity it was owed, and then moved on.

McCree never painted out old Reyes’s name. For years after his death, it remained, declaring above the warehouse door: McCree and Reyes. But he was not a sentimental man. He hung no pictures over his desk, nor care for any company. When he walked through the streets no one ever paused to bid him good day, nor did beggars ask of him a single cent, nor did any one every inquire a single thing about McCree.

It was Christmas Eve. Outside, the poor shivered in their boots and threaded rags. Smoke rose in graceful wisps from every chimney. The grey winter sky darkened in the night, and the snow blew in the biting breeze.

McCree was busy in his counting house, obstinately oblivious to the bleary conditions outside—as well as the calendar date. But he cracked the door open so he could keep a careful eye on his clerk, who at his humble desk copied letters. McCree tossed another log on the fire, large and warm in the chimney—but the clerk shivered in his seat.

“A merry Christmas, Jesse!” cried a cheerful voice, preceded only by the chime at the door as it swung open. It was Lena, who approached him so quickly he hardly had warning.

“Bah!” said McCree, “Humbug!”

Despite the cold, Lena was her usual chipper self—running about as she always did, she had no trouble staying warm. Her eyes sparkled and cheeks flushed from the chill, aglow with the festive spirit.

“Christmas a humbug, Jesse!” said Lena. “Surely, you can’t mean that?”

“I do,” Jesse scowled. “Merry Christmas! What right do you have to be merry? Yer poor enough.”

“Oh, come on,” Lena said with a roll of her eyes. “And what right do you have to be so grouchy? What right do you have to sit at your desk and sulk all day? You’re rich enough.”

But McCree had no answer for her. Instead, he repeated his mantra: “Bah! Humbug.”

“Don’t be cross.”

“What else can I be, when I’m surrounded by idiots? Merry Christmas! To hell with your ‘Merry Christmas.’ What’s Christmas time to y’all but a time to pay bills you can’t afford; a time to find yourself a year older but not an hour richer. If I had it my way, every dumbass goin’ round sayin’ ‘Merry Christmas’ would be boiled in their own pudding and buried with a stake of holly in their heart.”

“ _Jesse!_ ”

“Lena!” he returned. “Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”

“But you _don’t_ keep it.”

“Then let me leave it alone!” he said with a wave. “Much good may it do ya—much good it has ever done ya.”

“Plenty things have done me good without earning me a cent,” Lena said. “Christmas included. Even if you’re not religious, it’s a time of kindness, forgiveness, and charity. When I look around on the streets I see good people, who realize during this time of year, we’re all together. So maybe Christmas has never paid any of my bills, but it has done me good, and it will continue to do me good—and I say, bless it!”

The clerk was so moved by her speech he immediately applauded. But when silence quickly befell them again, he cleared his throat and straightened his papers.

“If I hear another sound from you, _Shimada_ , you’ll keep your Christmas by losing yer job!” McCree scolded to the clerk. Then, turning back to Lena, added, “Well ain’t you the speaker. Maybe you should go into Parliament.”

“Don’t be so angry, McCree. C’mon. Why don’t you dine with me and Emily tomorrow?”

McCree fell silent. He did promise her he would visit soon. He wrung his hands, but shook his head: he would retain his composure.

“I hardly know her.”

“Then why don’t you get to know her?”

“Why? Why did you get married?”

“Married?” Lena said, with a laugh. “Because I fell in love!”

“Because you fell in love!” McCree exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. To him, the notion of love was the only thing more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. “Good afternoon!”

“You’d never visit even before I met Emily. You can’t blame her for you not wanting to visit _now_.”

“Good afternoon.”

“I want nothing from you, McCree. I ask nothing of you. All I want is to be friends again.”

“Good afternoon.”

“From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry, though I don’t know what to be sorry for. I have never had any problem with you. But you can’t say I didn’t try, at least in the spirit of Christmas. And I’ll keep that spirit about me no matter what you say. So a merry Christmas, McCree!”

“Good afternoon!” said McCree.

“And a happy New Year!” Lena said, making her way for the exit.

“Good afternoon!” he called after her.

“See ya later, Hanzo,” Lena said with a smile to the clerk, who returned the expression in thanks. She then left through the door, closing it without a slam or ever haven spoken a single word in ire.

“There’s another fella,” muttered McCree to himself, having overheard their brief exchange. “My clerk, who hardly makes enough to support himself, talkin’ bout a merry Christmas. Ugh.”

Not a minute had gone by before two more visitors entered the warehouse—two older, well-dressed gentlemen. They took off their hats as they entered McCree’s office, and bowed in unison.

“McCree and Reyes,” said the first—a very short man who carded a hand through his long white beard as he spoke. “Do we have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. McCree, or Mr. Reyes?”

“Mr. Reyes has been dead for seven years,” McCree said darkly. “On this very night.”

“We have no doubt his surviving partner is equally generous!” said the other—a giant of a man with a booming voice. The two presented their credentials.

Generous. The very word sent a shudder down McCree’s spine. He shook his head and handed their credentials back.

“During this special time of year, Mr. McCree,” the shorter man—Lindholm—began, “it is desirable that we should make a greater effort to provide some provisions for the poor and destitute, whose suffering is amplified this time of year. Thousands are in want of common necessities; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts.”

“Are there no prisons?” McCree said.

“Plenty of prisons!” the taller—Wilhelm—responded enthusiastically.

“And the Union workhouses?”

“Yes, there are many of those. Though they scarcely show charity. We and our associates are endeavouring to raise funds to supply the poor with food and shelter during this time of year—which, above all other times, the want is most deeply felt.”

“What should we put you down for?” Wilhelm added, a great smile across his face and a pen in hand ready to take note.

“Nothing!” McCree said.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish to be left alone!” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is my only wish. I don’t care for this time of year, and I certainly don’t care to offer assistance to those who don’t even work. I support various establishments such as union workhouses. If anyone’s that doing that badly, they can just go there.”

“Many cannot go there. Many would rather die.”

“Then let them! Fewer mouths to feed. Besides, their condition is none of my business. I have a strict policy of minding my own business, and I’d rather others mind their own. And mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”

Wilhelm dropped his hand and his wide grin fell into a somber expression. Lindholm patted his arm, and they put their hats back on and turned to leave. McCree huffed, thinking good riddance to them both, and resumed his task.

Outside the bitter cold turned bitterer still, the wind howled and the snow fell to cover the earth and all its creatures in an icy coat. Peasants in the street huddled together, while those more fortunate braved the weather in flocks to spread good cheer.

Such a group happened upon McCree’s doorstep this evening, starting with a single knock at the door before reciting the opening lines of their carol:

“God bless you, merry gentlemen!  
May nothing you dismay!”

McCree sprung from his seat, snatching the fire iron in his fist, and dashed to the door. He swung it open, his face contorted and red with anger. He had no plans to strike, but the carolers scattered at the sight. He slammed the door shut and shook his head, a scowl twisting his lips.

“You’ll want the whole day off tomorrow, I suppose?” McCree said to his clerk, who rose from his desk and put on his hat.

“If convenient, sir.”

“It’s not convenient,” he snapped. “Not fair neither.”

“It is only once a year,” Hanzo muttered.

“Sorry reason to pick my pocket every twenty-fifth of December,” McCree retorted, putting the iron away as he shuffled on his coat. “But you can have the day. Just show up bright an' early the next morning.” 

“Yes, sir,” he nodded.

The two men left the warehouse, Hanzo with a sigh and McCree with a growl. Hanzo tipped his hat to the carolers, pausing to listen to their merry tune, and tossed a coin as he passed the bundled up bunch who slept on the street. He walked his way home, where he greeted his brother with a warm smile and warmer hug, and shared dinner and drink and many a laugh.

McCree went straight home, and no one dared to so much as glance in his direction. Once in his apartment, he took his solitary meal while mulling over the newspaper, then looked over his banker’s book, then went to bed. His suite was large for a single man, most rooms empty aside from his bedroom and office. It used to belong to his former partner, who had often kept company he himself knew little about. Now it was bleak and worn, absolutely uninviting to any other than the utilitarian eye of McCree.

Just as he settled into bed, a knock sounded at the door.

McCree rose, swinging on his robe in exasperation but nonetheless moving to answer. Before he could deliver his lecture to whoever dared disturb him this time of night, he saw a sight that nearly stole all the air from his lungs.

There, through the keyhole, was the face of none other than his former partner—Reyes.

He looked different—older, worn. A darkness surrounded him—no, _was_ him. Yet in his eyes he saw the same look Reyes used to give him, and he knew he must have woken from the dead.

The knock sounded again.

A surge of adrenaline filled his body, and before he could regret it he unlocked the door and swung it open. A cold bead of sweat dripped from his forehead.

Nothing was there but the night, and the bristled doormat below. 

He stood for a few moments, listening only to the wind and his own labored breathing. He shook himself, suddenly aware of the cold, and closed the door. It resounded with a sound so thunderous it shook the floorboards at his feet, and echoed throughout the barren rooms.

But McCree was not a superstitious man, nor an easily frightened one. So he simply shrugged it off as fatigue, locked the door, and shuffled back to his bedroom.

Sleep did not come.

An itching feeling crept up his spine, and he rose once more. He went through the suite, opening every door to examine the contents of the room, and, when satisfied at the empty darkness that resided behind each, closed them again. He sat in the living room and lit a small flame at the fireplace, and sat down to clear his head.

He gazed into the flame, the flickering of the light all too like what he used to see in his partner’s eyes so long ago.

“Humbug!” McCree cried, and rose from his seat.

He paced across the room, chasing the image from his mind. Satisfied, he took his seat again. He started dozing off in his chair, before the sound of a bell like the one hung above the shop rang in his ears. He blinked his eyes back open, and every door in his home flew open at once.

“Humbug, still!” McCree said as he leapt to his feet. “It’s just the wind.”

But all his rationalization could not account for the figure who now approached him. The unearthly shadows danced before him as he walked, but he was unmistakable: from his usual coat to his confident stride, to the face he would recognize anywhere. Reyes. The figure was transparent, more like smoke than a man, and wore a long chain around his waist.

McCree barely could suppress a shiver. “How now,” he said, steeling himself. “What do you want with me?”

“Much!” the figure said. The voice seemed to echo all around him, but it was undoubtedly that of Reyes.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Ask me who I was.”

“Who _were_ ya, then?”

“In life, I was your partner, Gabriel Reyes.”

McCree eyed him up and down. He certainly looked the part, but surely his eyes must be deceiving him.

“Have a seat,” McCree offered, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

Reyes obliged, and though ethereal, had no trouble sitting as any man would.

“You don’t believe in me,” the ghost observed.

“I do not.”

“Why? Do you doubt your senses?”

“The eyes can be easily fooled,” McCree offered. “Fatigue can make you see and believe strange things. Or maybe it was somethin' I ate—somethin' undercooked or gone bad that's altered my judgement.”

But McCree was more trying to convince himself than the apparition before him, attempting to weave an explanation that would soothe the terror that grasped at his very heart.

The spirit was not convinced. He rose, giving a cry as if in pain, that shook his chain. The sound echoed throughout the suite, shaking every door and drawer and table. McCree’s heart thundered in his chest and his knuckles blanched at their grip on his chair. His eyes widened and he gaped as the figure’s skin seemed to rot clean off his face, only to regrow and tear once more.

McCree fell from his seat, shaking as he held his face in his hands.

“Mercy!” he pleaded. “Why must you haunt me?”

“So, man of the worldly mind!” the ghost growled. “Do you believe in me, or not?!”

“I do,” McCree sobbed. “But why? Why must spirits walk the earth? Why go to me?”

“It is required of every person that the spirit within them should walk among their peers, and travel far and wide—and if that spirit does not go forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. Doomed to wander the world, and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!”

With this the spirit gave another cry, chain shaking and ringing in McCree’s ears.

“Why are you bound so?”

“I wear this chain that I forged in my life,” Reyes replied, holding it up to examine it. “I forged it link by link—of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is this strange to you?”

McCree shuddered.

“Or can you yet see, the weight and length of the coil you bear yourself? Seven years ago it would have matched mine, and you have labored on it since.”

McCree’s eyes dashed about him, expecting himself to be enveloped in iron, but there was only the cold, empty floor.

“Gabe,” he said. “Gabriel, please. Just tell me what you want from me.”

“I have no solace to offer you,” Reyes hissed. “That you must find in others still alive around you, Jesse McCree. Nor will I tell you what all I know. Little more am I able to offer you. But I will tell you this: I cannot rest. I cannot stay. I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit, bound to the earth, is condemned to wander but never return to the warehouse we once worked, or the streets we once walked, but even wearier trails lie before me!”

Jesse McCree fell silent for a moment. He rose again, staring at his feet, then to the fire, contemplatively.

“You must have been real slow, Gabe,” Jesse said.

“Slow!”

“Seven years dead,” he mused. “And travelling all this time!”

“The whole time,” Reyes repeated. “No rest. No peace. Only my own remorse for company.”

“You travel quickly, then?”

“On the wings of the wind.”

“You must’ve travelled pretty far in seven years.”

Reyes cried again into the night, ringing the chain once more.

“Captive! Bound! Clad in iron! Not to have known that for all the ages of labour by the immortal, all of this earth shall too pass into eternity! Not to see that for all the work one man can do will ever be enough! Not to feel enough regret to ever make amends for a life misused! Yet such was I! Oh, such was I!”

“But you were a great businessman, Gabriel,” McCree said, thinking now of his own fate.

“Business!” Reyes scoffed. “Humanity was my business. The common welfare: charity, mercy, justice were my business. The dealings of my trade was nothing to the vast ocean of what was my business!”

The spirit’s face twisted again, forming and deforming in horrible scars that marked his unearthly flesh. His chain seemed to grow, scattering with heavy clanks upon the floor.

“This time of year, I suffer the greatest,” Reyes continued, in a voice soft, contemplative. “I think back on my life and wonder, why? Why did I walk through crowds of my fellow people with my eyes turned down? Why did I never bid a single stranger good day, or return a smile of an innocent child? Why did I never look up to the stars which led the three Wise Men to a poor abode, should they also lead me?”

McCree only stared, at a loss for words.

“Heed my words,” Reyes growled. “My time is nearly gone.”

“I will,” McCree said. 

The spirit shook his head, chuckling sadly. “How is it that I appear before you now, so that you can see me? I have sat beside you without you realizing, for many, many days.”

“Gabe,” McCree said, a whisper.

“I am here tonight only to warn you,” Reyes continued. “You have hope yet to escape the fate that has cursed me.”

“You were always a good friend to me. Thank you, Gabriel.”

“You will be haunted,” the ghost resumed, “by three spirits.”

McCree gave a nod, and silence befell him. “Will they be the hope you mentioned?”

“They will.”

“I,” McCree faltered, “I think I’d rather not.”

“Without them, you will be doomed to the same fate as I. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one. Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third, upon the next night when at the last stroke of twelve. Then look to see me no more, and instead, to the future—but remember what has passed between us!”

With these words, the specter gathered his chain, walking toward the door again. McCree followed, opening the door to see him out. Reyes stepped out, but rose a hand in warning to come no further. McCree watched as he disappeared into the air, crying out in song with the wind until there was nothing left but the falling of snow.

He closed the door, and retreated to his bed, where he dreamt of thousands of ghosts with chains of varying lengths walking the earth in their mournful song.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Who are you?”_
> 
> _“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”_
> 
> _McCree eyed her up and down. “Long past?”_
> 
> _“No,” she said with a chuckle. “Your past.”  
> _

McCree awoke to a darkness so thick he could hardly distinguish his own hand from the bed he sat up on. He squinted his eyes in attempts to see through the dark, but it was futile—so he listened instead.

The chiming of the bells passed from six to seven, from seven to eight, and so forth until it was twelve, before it stopped. Twelve?! 

Impossible. It was past two when he went to bed. The clock must be broken. Twelve!

He rose to the clock, running a finger over the spring of the repeater to correct it. Its rapid pulse beat twelve, and stopped once more.

“Surely, I didn’t sleep the whole damn day and into another night?” he muttered. “But it can’t be that the sun has been blocked out, and it is now high noon!”

So alarmed was he by this idea, he flung himself to the window and rubbed away the fog with a sleeve to peer outside. Still, he could see little, but the fog and the cold. Not a sound but the wind came from the outdoors, and empty were the streets but for the snow that fell. 

Night it still was, McCree concluded, and he went to bed again. He shut his eyes but his mind raced in attempt to make sense of the strange phenomenon, but came up short. When he tried to stop thinking of the dreaded clock, his thoughts only flickered back to the ghost of Reyes, another puzzle that must have—yet couldn’t possibly be—a dream.

He lay there restlessly, listening to the beat of the clock, until he realized what the ghost had told him: a visitation when the bell tolled one. He took in a deep breath in attempt to still his thudding heart, and decided he would simply lay awake until the next vision came unto him.

The hour he spent in wait passed agonizingly slowly, and he counted to himself along with the beat of the clock. Finally the bell sounded, a dull tone that echoed through the room. Light flooded the room in an instant, and he sat up abruptly.

Facing him by the bed stood the figure of an older woman, with white hair and a face warmed by a pleasant smile, wrapped in a blue veil. 

“Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?” McCree asked.

“I am,” the spirit nodded, speaking in a voice so gentle it washed over him like a wave of calm.

“Who are you?”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

McCree eyed her up and down. “Long past?”

“No,” she said with a chuckle. “Your past.”

McCree swallowed, but did not respond.

“Come with me,” she said, and McCree rose to follow.

Though he was loath to leave the warmth of his bed and endure the frigid night, Reyes’s warming echoing in his brain prompted his feet to move. The spirit approached the front door, and turned to look back at McCree, sensing his hesitance to brave the snowy streets in nothing but his slippers and nightgown.

“I am a mortal,” he said, “I might fall…”

“With a mere touch of my hand,” she said, resting it upon his heart, “you will be uplifted.”

As soon as the words passed her lips, they floated into the air and passed through the door as if it were a breeze. But instead of the dark, winter streets they were on an open country road with fields covered in white. The city was far gone, replaced by a small market town was in the distance. 

“I’ll be damned,” said McCree, looking all around him. “I was born and raised here!”

The spirit smiled at him mildly. McCree could still feel the touch of her warm hand upon his breast, and in the air he smelt many subtle scents deeply ingrained with memories from long ago—hopes, fears, dreams long since forgotten.

“Your lip is trembling,” the spirit said.

McCree turned away. “Please, where are we going?”

“Don’t you remember the way?”

“Remember it!” he cried, almost indignantly. “Hah, I could walk through this town blindfolded!”

“Then let us go on.”

As they journeyed up the road, McCree distinctly recalled every picket fence, every gate, every tree until they were in the town itself, with its bridge, church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies trotted toward them, each carrying a laughing child on its back, and they called out to the farmers in the street who drove their carts to market. 

“These are but shadows of the things that have been,” the ghost said. “They have no awareness of us.”

McCree named every person in the town as they passed by, his smile broadening more and more with every recollection. His eyes began to water at the happy scene, of these small town folk going about their day and greeting one another with a “Merry Christmas.” But what was a merry Christmas to McCree? To hell with Christmas! What good has it ever done him?

“There is the school,” said the ghost. “Deserted but for one solitary child, neglected by his friends.”

“I know it,” McCree said softly, and his smile faded, and he wiped the tears from his eyes.

The pair passed the high-road, down a lane, until they came upon a brick red house. The windows were broken, gates decayed, and when they passed through the wall they could see the dust which coated the empty rooms, and the few pieces of dilapidated furniture that occupied the spaces.

In one of these empty rooms, a small boy read by a feeble fire. McCree approached slowly, and trembled in realization of his forgotten former self.

He wept.

The spirit touched him on the arm. McCree raised his head, and followed her gaze back to his younger self.

“Jesse!”

The boy dashed up and rushed to the window, peering out eagerly. McCree and the spirit followed, and they saw a young girl standing outside the window with a wide grin.

“Why, it’s little Fareeha!” Jesse exclaimed. “I haven’t seen her in ages! One Christmas time, when I as a child was left here all alone, she came to me for the first time, just like that! And she had a wide hat on her head, that covered her eyes, and she gave it to me and said it’d suit me much better, and I was never seen without it for years!”

He laughed and wiped a tear at the memory. If those in the city who knew him could see him like this, they would be in for a surprise, indeed.

“I wish…” McCree started suddenly, drying his eyes with his cuff. “No, it’s too late, now.”

“What is the matter?” said the spirit.

“Nothing… nothing,” he said. “There were some carolers… last night, at my door. I think I would’ve liked to give ‘em something. Pudding. A warm mug of tea. That’s all.”

The ghost put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and smiled gently.

“Let’s see another Christmas,” she said with a wave of her hand, and McCree watched his past self grow larger and the room around him become darker and dirtier. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead. And there he was again, alone, while the other boys had gone home for the holidays.

Rather than reading he was pacing around the room with a dark expression on his face. The door opened, and in stepped a young girl who rushed to greet him.

“Brother!” she said, a bright smile on her face. “I’ve come to bring you home, brother!”

“Home?”

“Yes! Home, for good, this time. Dad’s much nicer than he used to be, and I’m no longer afraid to ask if you’d be coming home, and he said yes, you should, and he sent me with a driver to bring you!” she clapped her hands excitedly. “And you’re never going to have to come back here—and we can be together for Christmas this year!”

The younger McCree smiled. “I’d like that.”

She hugged him, then pulled him toward the door in childish eagerness. Having nothing left for him in such a place, he followed.

“Bring down Master McCree’s box, there!” a thunderous voice cried out, and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who looked down on McCree with ferocious condescension, but shook hands with him nonetheless. He escorted them out, instructing his servant to load the car with McCree’s luggage. The two siblings then entered the car and drove away, a spray of snow chasing it at the wheels.

“Her heart was weak,” the spirit said sadly. “But large.”

“Yes,” McCree said.

“She died a woman. And had, I think, been married.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “She knew she’d be widowed not long after the ceremony.”

“Your sister in law.”

“Lena,” he said with a nod, thinking of her now with someone new. “Yes.”

He hardly noticed the change of scenery from the dismal school to the busy city streets, dark and covered in snow, only cheered up by the dressing of window shops with decorations and lights.

They walked until the spirit paused at a warehouse door, and asked McCree if he knew it.

“Knew it!” he scoffed. “I was apprenticed here!”

They entered, the sight of a tall blond man with a confident smile sitting behind a high desk.

“I’ll be damned, if that ain’t Jack Morrison, alive and well again!”

Jack set down his pen and looked at the clock. He burst up from his seat and adjusted his coat, calling out to the opening door.

“Jesse! Angela!”

McCree’s former self, now a young man, strode in with his fellow apprentice.

“Angela Ziegler!” McCree said to the ghost. “In the flesh. She went on to better things—became a doctor, I heard.”

“Hey kids,” Jack said. “No more work tonight. It’s Christmas eve, after all. Let’s close the shutters and clean the place up.”

Off they went, busying themselves with the shutters and sweeping the floor and clearing the place in a hurry—and good thing, too, because they had company. First in was Gabriel Reyes—at the time, Jack Morrison’s partner—with a guitar in hand. He started playing a soothing melody and sang along in a language only he and Jesse could understand. Next was the cook, who beamed an aura of jovial serenity. Then came many of Jack and Gabriel’s prior apprentices, coworkers, and others—some of whom Jesse knew, others who were strangers. Before they knew it, the place was full of bodies laughing, talking, dancing, drinking—and then feasting, and then more drinking.

The party went on until two in the morning, when Jack shook the hands of each guest who still remained, wishing them each a Merry Christmas. Finally, when it was just him, Gabriel, Jesse, and Angela, he bid the two apprentices a good night, and they went off to their beds upstairs.

The spirit was far more interested in McCree’s face than the scene as it unfolded. With every individual he recalled, his expression would transform from a surprise to a wide grin, and he would laugh along with the others at overheard jokes, and clapped along when he watched them dance, and even softly sang to one of the more bittersweet tunes Gabriel crooned, wiping a tear away from his eye as he did. It wasn’t until everyone went to their rooms and the lights dimmed that he remembered himself, and the spirit beside him.

“Such a simple gesture,” the ghost said, “to make such a crowd so giddy, and so full of gratitude.”

“Simple!” echoed McCree.

The spirit raised a hand, signaling him to listen now to the two apprentices, who, getting ready for bed, were laughing over their just-formed memories of the evening and singing their praises of Jack.

“Well?” the spirit said again. “Was such a party enough to illicit such admiration?”

“It wasn’t just that,” McCree snapped defensively. “Jack, he had power over us—he could make our lives great or miserable; to make our work light or a great burden. His power ain’t just in his words, it’s more than that. The joy he’d give, it’s greater than any amount of money.”

The spirit turned her head thoughtfully at that, and smiled. McCree stopped.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, after a moment’s pause.

“It’s nothin’…”

“Something, I think.”

“It’s just…” McCree began, and huffed. “I’d just like to be able to say somethin’ to my clerk now. That’s all.”

The apprentices of the past now turned off their lights and slipped into their respective beds. The ghost adjusted her veil, and they both stood side by side in the open air.

“My time grows short,” she said, almost a whisper. “Quickly, now!”

Again, McCree could see himself—an older man, now in his prime. His hair had yet to grey, his face was not as creased, and he had yet the need of glasses. Beside him was a young girl clad in black, whose tears shone in the gentle light from the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“You don’t even care,” she sobbed. “that it’s over. But if what’s replaced me can comfort you, like I would have tried to, there’s no reason for me to grieve.”

“And what has replaced you?” the young McCree asked.

“Gold.”

“Please,” he huffed. “Be sensible. Ain’t nothing in the world as hard as poverty, and ain’t nothing in the world as worthwhile as riches.”

“You weren’t always like this,” she protested. “You used to desire other things—to explore the world, to make it a better place. But one by one those aspirations were cast aside until all you care for is your own greed.”

“So? I still feel the same toward you.”

He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away and shook her head.

“Am I wrong?” he said.

“This… contract,” she said, looking away, “was made long ago. We were younger then. Poorer, too. And content with that. You were different then.”

“I was a boy.”

“And now you are a bitter, selfish man,” she snapped, looking into his eyes now. “You don’t care for me—so I will do us both a favour and let you go.”

McCree said nothing—not a word of protest or defense. He clenched his fist, stood his ground—but was silent.

“As I thought,” she said. “I hope your fortunes make you happy.”

She plucked the ring from her finger, and shoved it into his palm. She turned away.

He never saw her again.

“Spirit!” McCree cried. “Show me no more. Or do you enjoy torturin’ me?”

“Just one more memory,” the spirit said, and gave a soothing smile.

“No! No more. I don’t wanna see it.”

But the ghost held him in place then, so he could not flee or look away. The next scene unraveled before them: a place he did not recognize, a young girl sitting by the fireplace. She was so familiar, so like the girl he was engaged to long ago, but it couldn’t be—until he turned and saw _her_ , now an older woman, and she sat down next to her daughter.

The peaceful scene was promptly interrupted by the loud crashes of other children laughing and chasing a dog. One child tripped, but was unharmed, and the dog stood over him and licked his face and wagged his tail while he laughed. The mother and daughter watched and burst out in a fit of giggles.

McCree felt a bitter tug at his heart, but before he could even give words to the sensation there was a knocking at the door. This time the other parent—a handsome woman with pink hair—entered the room, opening the door and greeted the guests with a handshake and warm smile. The guests rushed in from the cold, an expecting couple with arms full to the brim with presents, who the children excitedly rushed to help. Just as they got settled, dinner was announced, and they all gathered at the table to enjoy their Christmas eve meal.

“Mei,” the taller woman said, turning to her wife with a smile. “I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon.”

“Really?” she said. “Who?”

She laughed. “Guess!”

“Oh, I dunno…”

“None other than Mr. McCree!”

“What!”

“Yes! I passed his office window, and inside it was lit up, so I looked in, and he was sitting by himself with paperwork at his desk. His business partner is close to death, I hear. Now he sits at his office quite alone.”

“Spirit,” McCree pleaded through gritted teeth. “Remove me from this place.”

“These are simply the shadows of things that have been,” she said calmly. “They are what they are. Do not blame me for it.”

“Put an end to it. I can’t bear to look.”

The spirit turned to him then, and he couldn’t put a word to describe her expression—something sad, not quite pity, and not quite hurt. Her face gutted him to the core.

“Leave me,” he said in a strangled voice. “Take me back to my room. Haunt me no more!”

The image faded from their view, and the light of the spirit went with it. Just as suddenly as she came, she vanished, and McCree looked about him and saw he was in his room once more. He noticed the window to his bedroom was open, and he shuddered in the breeze that came through, and closed it. He felt his stomach turn as he went back to bed, and he curled himself up tightly but still felt a deep cold that penetrated him to the bone. He shuddered, feeling agonizingly alone, before was mercifully sent into a deep sleep.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazingly enough, I am still working on this!
> 
> I had planned to finish it much sooner--but Stardew Valley ate my life.
> 
> Update: edited last few paragraphs so instead of inputting some rando dude, Zarya's now with Mei. :-)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Jesse McCree,” the spirit said, turning toward him and looking him in the eye. Jesse met his gaze, trying not to be intimidated by the giant figure. “You are a stubborn man at heart, but if you do have a heart, then still your words and judgement. What mouths should get fed, what mouths should starve? Will you decide who lives and who dies? If so, you may find you are more worthless, and less fit to live than millions like this young man.”_

He awoke again, this time from a deep slumber. He blinked in the darkness, struggling to collect his thoughts, recalling the events just hours before—no, not a dream. He looked to the clock, and it was again on the stroke of One. Just in time, he thought, but a cold hesitance crept through his bones. He shuddered, steeling himself under the blankets. He didn’t want to be taken by surprise this time, and set his mind on challenging the spirit the moment it arrived. He knit his brows to focus, looking all about him.

He was ready for anything, but as the clock struck one, he realized—he was not prepared for nothing.

Not a shape appeared, there was no sudden break of the stillness of the wind. McCree clenched his teeth, watching the clock as the seconds rolled by into minutes. A quarter of an hour had passed, and still he lay in his bed, furious now with impatience, but oblivious to the stream of light that had formed from the base of his bed and streamed outward. He turned his head, and wondered if he had simply left the light on in the adjacent room. He rose again, shuffling in his slippers to the door.

The moment his hand laid on the door handle, a strange voice called to him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.

It was his own room. Yet it had undergone a surprising transformation. The bare white walls were now blooming with green, grass grew from the floor, and crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected in the shining light. A roar came from the chimney then, and bursting onto the floor came a bountiful feast: turkeys, geese, game, poultry, pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, chestnuts, apples, oranges, pears, cakes. A laugh roared in the room, causing the very floor below to shake, and McCree steadied himself against a wall.

“Come in!” a gleeful voice boomed.

McCree treaded hesitantly over, looking up to see a giant….

Wait, was that a gorilla?

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” the gorilla spirit said, pushing up his glasses with one of his thick fingers. “Look upon me!”

McCree couldn’t help but do so. The beast was covered in pepper grey fur, and wore a green robe with white fur around the edges. He wore nothing else save for a wreath of holly on top of his head. Despite his intimidating appearance, his eyes sparkled with benevolence, and his voice was that of enthusiastic joy.

“You have never seen the like of me before!” the spirit exclaimed, with a booming laugh.

“Nope,” McCree said, shaking his head.

The spirit rose from his seat, and even with his knuckles resting on the floor he towered over McCree.

“Spirit,” McCree said weakly, “show me what you will. The past spirit showed me many things, and I learned from ‘em. So if you’ve got somethin’ to teach me, let me profit by it.”

“Touch my robe.”

McCree obeyed, however tentative he was to approach the great beast. The holly, mistletoe, ivy, turkeys, geese, pigs, sausages, pudding, and the rest of the bounty that surrounded them vanished in an instant. And with it, so did the room, the fire, the hour of the night itself, and they stood now on the city streets on Christmas morning where people shuffled out of their homes to brave the snowy streets and shovel the side walks.

The sky above was a gloomy grey, and the depths of winter sent a gust of wind that chilled McCree to the bone. But for all the plight this December morning brought, an unmistakable air of cheerfulness filled the town. Each chimney quaked with a warm fire, and every person, no matter how difficult their labours, had a smile to fend off the cold. Neighbors engaged in chipper conversation, and children ran about and pelted each other with balls of snow. The market was filled with great baskets of roasted chestnuts, pears and apples stacked in pyramids, grapes that hung from hooks, and turkeys and pigs roasting in windows. There were fish of all varieties, and cakes and pies both savoury and sweet. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, and customers held their heat close to their faces.

Soon the steeples called the people of the streets to church and chapel, and away they went, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, but never shoving in the crowds. Those who didn’t go to church gathered in their own homes, uniting together families related by blood as well as those chosen. They settled upon one such scene, a little family gathered in a downtrodden home, with a turkey being prepared for the oven.

The spirit gave a warm smile and turned to McCree, pressing one of his fingers to his grey lips as if they could be caught, and from his robe pulled a variety of shakers, which he sprinkled onto the turkey with great care. He leaned over to take a whiff, and, contented with his work, rejoined McCree to watch the scene.

A woman re-entered the kitchen, tying up her messy hair, and went to ponder the turkey. Seeing it already seasoned, she went to smell it, and made a small “mm” sound of contentment before putting it in the oven to roast slowly. 

McCree furrowed his brows and rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

“What’d ya sprinkle there, King Kong?”

The spirit looked at him in confusion at the nickname, but decided not to indulge. “My own spices,” he said good naturedly. “A mix of this and that—it’s a secret.”

“Uh huh. And you’d use it on any dinner this day?”

“To any that may present themselves,” he shrugged. “To a poor one the most.”

“To a poor one most,” McCree repeated. “Why’s that?”

“It needs it most.”

“Hm,” he said, nodding in thought for a moment. “Y’know, Spirit, it’s kinda funny. Of all the beings in the many worlds around us, yer the one who’s most willing to prevent these people’s opportunities of innocent enjoyment.”

“I!” cried the Spirit, pushing up his glasses and flaring his nostrils.

“You’d deprive ‘em of their only means of dining every week. Might be the only day they could eat together at all. Ain’t that right?”

“I?” the Spirit said again, folding his great furry arms.

“You’d have all these places close on this day, huh?”

“ _I_ would?”

“If not you, then surely one of your spirit’s kin?”

“There are those on this Earth of yours,” the spirit said, this time with a frown, “who claim to know us, and do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name. But they are strangers to us and all our kin, and make their own decisions. Remember that, and judge them for their own doings, not us.”

McCree bit his lip, but nodded. They pressed on from the scene, back to the streets and striding into another home. McCree felt his heart leap when he realized where the spirit had taken him—though the little house and run down neighborhood were unfamiliar to him, but he recognized one of the tenants immediately.

As the spirit bestowed his share of spices onto the humble meal of this household, McCree stared with wide eyes at the scene: Hanzo Shimada, entering the home with a strawberry cake in his arms. He toed off his boots at the entrance, and placed hung his hat and coat by the door.

“Genji,” he called, setting the cake down at a little coffee table. “I’m back. I got your favourite—strawberry.”

“What, no booze?” came the response, and a young man with bright green hair rolled over in his wheel chair to greet him.

“Genji,” Hanzo said, shooting him a look. But his face softened, and he laughed, and said, “I have some sake left in my room.”

“ _Yessss_ ,” Genji said, shaking a fist in excitement.

“After dinner. You’re helping.”

“Aw.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes and padded into the kitchen, Genji following after. He opened the oven to check on the goose that had been slowly roasting in a broth of onions, carrots, and russet potatoes, and he took in a deep breath.

“Looks almost done. Did you add more seasoning?” he called over his shoulder.

“Uh, no—“

“Because it smells quite good. Nice work.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Genji added quickly. “Yup, that was totally me. You’re welcome.”

Hanzo raised a brow, but made no comment. “Would you rather chop the vegetables or make the dressing for the salad?”

“Chopping.”

“Don’t cut off any fingers.”

“Brother!” he exclaimed, in mock offense. “I would never.”

“Just get to work,” he said with a playful nudge.

The two busied themselves in their work, content in their quiet but for a tune Hanzo began to hum. Genji joined in not too shortly after, the brothers carrying a melody from their childhood.

With the salad prepared, the goose had finished. Hanzo took it out, the heat colliding once more with the delightful scent that had their stomach’s rumbling—and McCree’s, too. He carved it at the table while Genji arranged the plates and silverware, and as Genji began to take some food Hanzo rose once more.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. Genji grunted, thinking nothing of it.

He returned with a sleek black bottle, and two glasses which he poured the rice wine into. He set the first glass in front of Genji, and the second by his own plate.

“Couldn’t wait until after dinner?”

Hanzo chuckled. “It’s Christmas,” he said with a shrug, and they clinked their glasses together. Cheers.

“Merry Christmas,” Genji replied, and took a sip.

 

“Spirit,” McCree said, knitting his brows with sudden interest. “His brother… Is he ill?”

The spirit nodded, his cheery demeanor suddenly solemn. “Yes. Very.”

He paused a moment, watching the scene. Noticing how pallid his complexion was in comparison to the more familiar brother, the delicacy of his wrists, the bony frailty of his hands, the way he occasionally coughed into his sleeve. The way Hanzo would look at him, an unmistakable expression of concern.

“Tell me if he will live.”

“I see a vacant bedroom,” the ghost replied, “carefully preserved. A candle lit in remembrance. A lonely home without cheer.”

“No, no,” McCree said, shaking his head. “Kind spirit, no, please. Say he'll be spared.”

“If he is to die, then why not let him? Fewer mouths to feed. Besides, his condition is none of your business.”

McCree’s eyes widened at the spirit, and he snapped his jaw shut. He turned away, hanging his head in shame. To hear his own words quoted at him felt like a shot through the heart, and he couldn’t bear to think of how cruel he must have been.

“Jesse McCree,” the spirit said, turning toward him and looking him in the eye. Jesse met his gaze, trying not to be intimidated by the giant figure. “You are a stubborn man at heart, but if you do have a heart, then still your words and judgement. What mouths should get fed, what mouths should starve? Will you decide who lives and who dies? If so, you may find you are more worthless, and less fit to live than millions like this young man.”

McCree bent forward, falling to his knees. He shook, suddenly overcome with a feeling of frigid loneliness, but looked up again when he heard his own name.

“To Mr. McCree!” Hanzo said, raising his glass as he poured the two another drink. “Mr. McCree, without whom we wouldn’t have this feast!”

Genji accepted the refill, but scoffed. “Pfft, yeah right! I wish McCree was here. I’d give him a piece of my mind, then run over his foot with my chair.”

Hanzo burst out laughing. “Genji!” he said, trying to be appalled by his brother’s suggestion. “Come on. It’s Christmas.”

“When else would we ever drink to such an odious, greedy, cruel man? Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right.”

“Genji,” Hanzo repeated, stifling his chuckles.

“I’ll drink all right!” Genji said, tipping his head back in demonstration. “I’ll drink to your good health, and mine. But not to his. He won’t need it, I’m sure he’ll be plenty happy on his own.”

They finished their dinner in silence, but began to talk again as they cleaned up after themselves, and laughed even harder in recollection of old memories, from young adulthood to childhood. Genji recalled when he first dragged Hanzo out with him to a party, who was so reluctant in fear of getting caught, and they wouldn’t have if Hanzo hadn’t been such a clumsy, noisy drunk. And Hanzo spoke of how as children, Genji would always try to imitate him, often ending in his own injury or being chided by their father. With each story, their laughter grew louder.

McCree couldn’t help but smile bitter sweetly at the scene—a burning feeling welling up in his heart for reasons he didn’t quite know—or too many reasons to tell. Of guilt for treating his assistant so poorly, of remorse for never having gotten to know him better. Of sadness seeing his only company, who he now realizes is the reason he had worked so feverishly where all prior assistants of his had quit, may not have much longer in this world. Of desire to share their company, but knowing he wouldn’t deserve it anyhow.

Outside, it grew dark and snowed ever heavier. The spirit lead McCree back into the night, peering over his shoulder to keep a keen eye on the brothers, still smiling and laughing and enjoying the other’s company.

All about, smoke from chimneys rose and the scent of home cooked meals wafted into the white streets. Before he knew it, they had arrived at a familiar doorstep of a humble but cozy home.

A laugh was the first thing McCree heard as they passed through the door, one that unmistakably belonged to Lena. As bitter of a man that McCree had been, even he had difficulty resisting the contagious charm of such a laugh. He smiled.

“He even said that Christmas was a humbug! Can you believe it?” Lena’s voice rang out, before erupting once more into giggles.

“Well, more shame for him!” a woman—it must have been her fiancé, Emily—said.

McCree refused time and time again Lena’s pleas for him to meet Emily, the woman she was to marry. But seeing her now, dimples lighting up her face and the contented look the pair shared, McCree couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

“He’s a silly man,” Lena continued with a sigh. “And less pleasant than he used to be. But he suffers the most for it, so I won’t say anything against him.”

“Suffer? Isn’t he rather wealthy?”

“Sure,” Lena said with a shrug, sipping from her mug of tea. “But he doesn’t do anything with it. He hasn’t made himself comfortable with it. And he certainly doesn’t intend to share it.”

“He sounds like a miserable man. I don’t know why you put up with him.”

“I feel sorry for him,” she admitted. “In truth, I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried. It upsets me that he won’t ever visit, say hello or meet you, let alone have dinner with us.”

“His loss,” Emily said. “It was a fantastic dinner.” She planted a kiss on her cheek for emphasis. Lena giggled into it and smiled broadly, planting one in return on her lips.

“But really, I worry about him. He’s all alone, Em.”

“He doesn’t have to be. You try so hard, Lena.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “But I can’t help of all the opportunities he’s missed out on, too. Other people he could share fond memories with. But he clings to his past, and clings harder to his money as if it would make him forget it. Sometimes I think he’s a lost cause, but I still try—so that even if I never do succeed, I can at least shake him a little. Maybe remind him he isn’t quite so alone. In fact, I think I shook him up a bit yesterday.”

Emily laughed. “You certainly sound like you did!”

They finished their tea, and put on some music. Upbeat songs filled the home, and they cleared away the coffee table to dance together. Playfully, first—exaggerated, goofy movements followed up with a twirl, and they burst into laughter. As they progressed, their moves became flirtatious, then romantic, holding each other in their arms as they swayed to the slower songs. McCree watched them, the way their faces seemed to glow when they looked into one another’s eyes, and even he could see their love.

Once more they passed again into the night, and the spirit bestowed his blessings on each home. He stood beside sickbeds, and made them cheerful; by those far from their families, and made them feel at home; by those in poverty, and made them rich in their hearts. By and by they visited every place where those who needed it most were given the spirit’s blessing, in the streets, the hospital, the jail, and everywhere else misery held refuge. With every passing blessing, McCree noticed the slightest of changes in the spirit’s appearance—his hair grew greyer, his skin seemed to wrinkle, his posture slackened, and he grew slower, too. Somehow, the ghost was aging.

“Are the lives of spirits so short?” McCree asked.

“My time here is brief,” the spirit said, without a hint of grief in his voice. “It will end tonight.”

“Tonight!”

“At midnight.”

McCree heard the chime of the clock, and saw it rang three quarters past eleven.

“Holy hell,” McCree said suddenly when he turned his head back upon the spirit. “What is _that_?”

From behind the spirit emerged two children, skin pale and clothes ragged. Where youthfulness should have graced their faces, an invisible hand of fate twisted their features and tore their clothes and wrinkled their skin.

“Whose children are these?” McCree said, uncertain of whether to feel frightened or overcome with pity.

“All of humanity’s,” he said, looking down upon them, and resting one of his gigantic hands upon the shoulder of each child. “They cling to me. The boy is Ignorance, and the girl is Want. Beware them both, for doom follows them. Deny them!”

“Don’t they have somewhere t'go?”

“Are there no prisons?” the spirit said, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are there no union workhouses?”

The bell struck twelve.

McCree looked all about him for the ghost, but he had vanished. As the last sounding of the bell rang into the night, the words of old Gabriel Reyes echoed in his ears, and lifting his eyes, he saw a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more to go!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _McCree had never denied that death would one day come, but had never given it great thought either. Yet here, now, looking upon the lonely corpse without evidence of a single soul to who cared for them, no family or friend or loved one—it chilled him to the core. Deep in his heart he felt a mortal loneliness, a despair for the opportunities he had missed, people he had shut out._

The phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached him. When he came close, McCree fell to his knees—even the air itself took on a suffocating weight in its presence.

It was shrouded in a black cloak that seemed to move about like smoke, and covered it entirely save for the bone-white skull mask on its face and an outstretching hand, with giant talons coming from its fingers.

The spirit was tall and mysterious, and though he spoke not a word, his presence filled McCree with dread.

“Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?”

The spirit said nothing, but continued to point with a raised hand.

“You’re gonna show me the shadows of things yet to pass,” McCree continued. “Ain’t that right?”

The spirit inclined his head, but gave no further reply. The ghost began to move in black wisps, and when McCree rose to follow, he found himself trembling all over.

The spirit paused, looking over his shoulder and waiting for McCree to cover. McCree, on the other hand, only grew worse, his heart pulsing in his ears in knowledge the dusky shroud was staring right through him.

“Spirit of the future,” he said, holding himself as he shuddered. “I’ve gotta admit, you scare the hell outta me. But I know you’re here to help me, and I wanna be a changed man, so I’m prepared to follow you. But won’t you talk to me?”

The spirit’s head turned back to look forward once more, ignoring him.

McCree huffed. “Lead on, then!”

The ghost did just that, and McCree followed in the shadow of its dress, its tendrils of smoke carrying them on into the city until they were in the heart of it. Merchants hurried up and down streets, conversing in groups, glancing at their watches, and carried on with their business in a manner McCree had seen them do thousands of times before.

The spirit paused before one such group of businessmen, and McCree leaned forward to listen to their talk.

“No,” said one of the men. “I don’t know much about it, either. I only know he’s dead.”

“When did it happen?”

“Last night, I believe.”

“What was the matter with him?” asked a third. “I thought that bastard’d never die.”

“God knows,” said the first again, with a yawn.

“What’s to be done with his money?” another asked.

He shrugged. “Haven’t heard. Left it to his company, maybe. But he hasn’t left a penny to _me_ , and that’s all I know or care about.”

The group shared a laugh over this.

“It’ll be a cheap funeral, that’s for sure,” another quipped. “Though I doubt anyone would attend. Kind of sad, really. Maybe we should volunteer?”

“Only if lunch is provided.”

Another laugh.

“Well, I’ll go if anyone else does, though I won’t wear black and don’t take lunches. Hell, I might be the closest he ever had to a friend, we always spoke whenever we met. But I’ve got to go now. Bye!”

The group gradually dwindled, and the spirit pointed in another direction. Two other businessmen, this time who McCree recognized, stood and conversed. McCree always made a point to treat them well, as they were very helpful allies in business.

“Ah, good morning, how are you?”

“Fine, and yourself?” the other replied with a tip of her hat. “Old man’s got his own at last, it seems.”

“So I’ve heard,” the first said. “Cold, isn’t it?”

“It is Christmas time. You don’t skate, do you?”

“God, no. Well, good day.”

Without another word, they parted ways.

McCree’s first thought was how trivial these conversations seemed, but he knew that the spirit would not waste either of their times, so he pondered their hidden meaning. He knew they couldn’t have been speaking of Reyes’s death—that was in the past, and this spirit dealt in the future. And he could not think of anyone immediately connected to himself they could be speaking of. But with patience, he decided to listen keenly to every word and watch carefully every expression of those the spirit directed he pay attention to. He hoped to see his future self, and maybe there realize the spirit’s intent. He looked to the street he often passed by, but his own image did not appear.

McCree felt the unseen eyes of the shadowy ghost on his back, and he turned to see the spirit with his outstretched hand directing him onward. They left the busy scene, leaving on to another part of town McCree was unfamiliar with. The streets were narrow, the shops and houses in shambles, the people in torn and dirty clothes. The area stank with crime, filth, and misery.

Deep in this condemned area was a little pawn shop beneath a pent-house roof. The interior left much to be desired, both in its condition and lighting, and contents: a wide variety of used clothes, many worn nearly to rags, scrap metals and spare parts, trinkets, ill-kept paintings, and just near everything you could think of.

McCree followed the phantom into the shop just as a woman with a heavy bundle stepped inside, shortly followed by another woman with a similarly large load, and a man smoking a cigarette. The latter crushed his under his heel before entering. The shopkeep laughed when she saw all three gathered like this.

“Convenient of you all to show at the same time,” she said, long purple nails flipping her hair. “Come in. Mind the door, it’s nearly rusted off its hinges. Come in, come in.”

She showed them to back of the shop, holding the door open for the three. The two with their bundles heaved them off their shoulders, stretching out their backs, relieved to stand up straight again.

“Well, well, well!” the shopkeep said, peering into the bags. “He certainly kept himself well.”

One of the women snorted. “No man more so.”

“Who’s the worse for a loss of a few things like these?” she said with a grin, plucking up a leather coat. “Certainly not a dead man.”

“No, indeed!” they laughed.

“If he wanted to keep any of this, he shoulda had someone looking after him.” She gave one of the bags a playful kick. “Now, let’s see the value of these.”

One at a time, the company revealed their plunder. The first to go was the man with the lightest load, who produced from his pocket an old pocket watch, an inexpensive brooch, and a few small trinkets. The shopkeep took these up with her long nails, examining them in the light carefully, before stating her price.

“I wouldn’t offer another dollar,” she said when he frowned with disappointment. “The watch was the only thing with remote value—and it’s in such a poor state. Who’s next?”

One of the women produced from her bag sheets and towels, some clothing, boots, and dish wear. Again, she carefully inspected these, running her hands against the material and examining for signs of wear and tear. She gave her account in a similar manner.

“I pride myself on my generosity, you know,” she said. “But I must make a living, too.”

The final woman produced a long, roll of dark fabric, along with blankets, and some clothing.

“Now, what is this?” the shopkeep said, holding up the heavy fabric.

“Bed-curtains!” the woman said with a laugh.

“You don’t mean to tell me you took ‘em down, rings and all, with him lying there?”

“Sure did. Why not?”

The shopkeep laughed. “Ah, you were destined for fortune. And these are his blankets?

“’Course they are. Who else’s? Not like he’ll get cold.”

“Hm. Sure hope he didn’t die from anything contagious?”

“Catch from who? That old geezer was alone ‘til the end.” She waved off her worries, and went to hold up another item. “Now this shirt here, you’ll find, hasn’t got a thread out of place or a single hole. Best thing he owned, I’m sure, and of fine material. They’d have wasted it, if not for me.”

“Oh? Wasted how?”

“Putting it on him to be buried in!”

All four laughed at this.

“So, that’s the end of it, then?” the shopkeep said, flipping her hair. “Let’s see what I can offer you.”

They made their dealings, and the woman was obviously pleased with her reward.

“Ah, what good fortune, for him to have frightened away everyone from him when he was alive, only for us to profit from him in his death!”

“Spirit!” McCree cried suddenly, “I see now. This could happen to me, too, if I don’t change, right? Oh, jesus—“

He recoiled as the scene changed, and he steadied himself on what he realized was a bed, with its curtain missing from the bars above, and beneath a ragged sheet a covered form lay limp. He stumbled backward in horror, glancing around the room again.

The phantom pointed, directing his eyes back. Tentatively, McCree’s gaze followed. The tip of the sheet had just barely covered the body, that the slightest movement would cause it to fall and reveal the face. A dark temptation rose within him to do so, but was glad he possessed no such power.

McCree had never denied that death would one day come, but had never given it great thought either. Yet here, now, looking upon the lonely corpse without evidence of a single soul to who cared for them, no family or friend or loved one—it chilled him to the core. Deep in his heart he felt a mortal loneliness, a despair for the opportunities he had missed, people he had shut out.

“Spirit,” he said again. “Please. Let’s get outta here. I swear, when we do, I sure as hell won’t forget any of this. I get it now. I do.”

But the spirit did not move, his finger pointing still to the head.

“Yes, I know. But I can’t.”

Even in the dark, McCree swore the gaze of the phantom fell upon him just then.

“Is there anyone, anyone in the world, who feels for this man—please. Let me see them.”

At his words the phantom spread his dark robes like wings, darkening his vision until he withdrew again to reveal a room by daylight, where a woman stood.

She was expecting someone, that much he could tell—she paced back and forth in the room, glanced at the clock, and occasionally sat in vain to work only to tap with her pen and rise again.

At last, her wait was over. The door opened, and she rushed to greet her wife. Her face was careworn despite her youth, and without a word she sat at the table where dinner had long been waiting.

“So…?”

She stared at the food, but did not answer.

“Is it good?” she asked. “Or bad?”

“Bad,” she said with a sigh.

“Are we ruined?”

“No. There is still some hope, Emily.”

“If he relents, there is.”

“He is past relenting,” she said with a sigh, and looked her in the eyes. “He’s gone, Em.”

Her expression turned slowly from astonishment, to grief, to relief.

“I had just thought he was avoiding me,” she continued. “When he told me he was sick, that is. I had no idea he was dying.”

Emily paused. “What about our debt?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll come up with the money soon—and we could hardly find a more merciless creditor in his successor. But for tonight, Emily, our troubles are over.”

Despite the loss, their hearts were lightened and the burden that wore on their souls was relieved. Ultimately, the phantom revealed to him, that even those dearest to him were better off in his death.

“Please, spirit. Show me more tenderness connected with death, or I’ll forever be haunted by that awful dark chamber.”

The ghost led him down familiar streets, once more to the house of the Shimadas. There, he saw Hanzo sitting quietly by a fire. He sipped from his mug of tea, and stared solemnly into the flames, though he didn’t seem to be seeing anything at all.

He finished his tea and rose, slowly walking down the hallway. He paused at one of the doors, drawing in a deep breath, and opened the door. 

The room was recently lived in, with some clothing on the floor and the bed unmade. But there was an eerie stillness about it, an emptiness that an inhabited space lacked.

Hanzo stood in the doorway for some moments, as if deep in thought. As if he could no longer bear the sight, he fell to his knees and wept.

“Genji,” he said, voice trembling. “I should have been a better brother to you.”

He wept into his hands more, and another minute passed before he calmed again, and his breathing evened out. He wiped his eyes, and rose again, steadying himself on the doorframe.

“I should have taken better care of you. Spent more time with you. I thought I was doing the right thing—working so hard. I had always thought I was doing what was best for you, even when you protested. I should have listened.”

He sighed, and stepped inside the room. He picked up the laundry on the floor, placing it in the hamper, and then smoothed the sheets on the bed, tucking them in under the pillow.

“That’s better,” he said with a bittersweet smile. “You always were a bit messy, weren’t you? It used to make me so angry.”

He trailed off again, chuckling, and wiped away another tear.

“We argued so often. We were like polar opposites, weren’t we?” he paused again. “But you made me a better man, Genji. A more patient, kinder man. I… I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Genji.”

“Spectre,” McCree spoke softly, suddenly aware of the tears falling from his face. “I don’t think we have much longer, now. But please, I must know. Who was that lying back there?”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Pass changed the scenery as he did before, until they were at another time and place.

“I know this place,” McCree said, looking about the street. “I work just down there. I’m ready. Let’s see, then, what becomes of me.”

The spirit pointed again, and through the window, McCree peered.

It was certainly his office, or at least was—the furniture had changed, and the figure in the chair was not his own. It was evident he no longer worked there. He looked back at the phantom, who pointed now in the opposite direction. McCree followed his lead in silence, thinking he will show him his new place of work.

They walked until they reached an iron gate, and beyond lay a courtyard with head stones. Maybe, he thought, the spirit was to show him the grave of that wretched figure. He let his eyes wander, head turning to look at all the graves, but the phantom pressed on.

The ghost stopped abruptly, pointing his clawed hand toward one of the graves. 

McCree looked down at the grave, then back to the phantom.

“B-before I get a closer look, I gotta ask,” he stammered. “Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or the shadows of things that might be?”

The ghost said nothing. He pointed, still.

“A man’s path in life will foreshadow certain ends, and if he continues, then surely to that end he’ll go. But, if he departs from the course, the end will change, too. That’s how it is with this, right?”

No answer came.

With a deep breath McCree drew toward the grave, shuddering with each step. It was neglected, growing with moss and developing cracks, but still the name engraved was clear: JESSE MCCREE.

McCree fell to his knees.

“Was I that man who laid on the bed?”

The phantom’s claw moved from pointing to the grave, to him, and then back.

“Spirit, no! No…”

But the ghost persisted.

“Please,” he stammered, grasping at his robe. “I ain’t the man I was. I won’t be the man I gotta be for all this to happen. If I am now past hope, why show me this at all!”

Just then, it seemed, the pointing hand began to shake.

“Merciful spirit,” he continued. “You show me this because you want to help me. Please. Please tell me, that I can change these shadows you have shown me!”

The spirit’s hand was shaking, now.

“I’ll honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I’ll live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The spirits of all three strive within me. I won’t shut out these lessons they’ve taught. Tell me I can undo the writing on this stone!”

In his despair, he caught the spectral hand. It immediately jerked back, resisting, but still he held on. But the spirit was stronger, and slipped through his grasp. The black robes enveloped his vision again, before dwindling into nothingness.  
 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was less cold, now, but still the slightest powdering of snow fell from the evening sky. But not a single spirit he saw that night--nor would he ever see again. And he would have no need to, for with each year that came, it was always said of him that no one kept Christmas closer to his heart than Jesse McCree._

McCree blinked, and realized he was now again in his room, laying his bed—yes, it was his bed! His own bed, the curtains still hung, the blankets still in place. And best of all, the time was now his own, and his to make amends in.

“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future,” McCree repeated, scrambling out of bed. “The spirits of all three live within me. Oh, Gabriel Reyes! Bless you, and bless Christmas for this.”

So overcome with good intentions, he could hardly speak coherently. His throat was dry, and eyes still wet with tears.

“The curtains,” he breathed, reaching a hand to the fabric. “They’re still here. I’m still here. The shadows of the things that would have been are gone. And they’ll stay gone. I know they will!”

He stumbled to his dresser, flinging it open and getting dressed in a hurry, nearly tripping himself in the process.

“I dunno what to do!” he said, crying in laughing in one breath. “I’m as light as a feather, happy as an angel, merry as a school boy. I feel giddy like a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everyone, and a happy New Year! Haha!”

He practically dashed into his kitchen, looking about the area in a frenzy.

“Ah, there’s my dinner plate,” he said, walking by the fireplace. “And the door, where the ghost of Gabe entered. And that’s where the ghost of Christmas Present sat! And the window where I saw those wandering spirits! Oh, lord, it really all happened. Hah… hahaha!”

He hadn’t cracked a smile or laughed a laugh in ages, and yet it came back to him so naturally, his face lighting up brilliantly, youth returning to his features in his frantic joy.

“God, it feels like ages have past. Don’t even know what day it is. How long was I out? Ah, well, what’s it matter!” 

Outside, church bells pealed their lustrous sound. McCree rushed to the window to open it, and closed his eyes as he listened to the music he once despised. Looking up, the sky had been cleared, and though it was cold the sun was shining and the snow sparkled in its light. He took in a breath of fresh air, smelling the scent of cooking meals in the air.

“What’s today!” he cried, seeing a boy outside playing in the sow.

“Huh?” the boy said, looking in his direction.

“What day is it, son?”

“Today!” the boy exclaimed. “It’s Christmas!”

“Christmas day!” McCree echoed, beaming. “I haven’t missed it. The spirits did it all in one night! Course they did! They can do whatever they want! Of course it’s Christmas. Hello!”

“Hi!” the boy returned.

“Y’know the butcher’s shop, just a couple blocks from here, on the corner?”

“Sure do.”

“Ah, course ya do! Clever one, you are. Do you know if they’ve sold that prize turkey they had hanging in the window? Not the small one, the real big one?”

“The one as big as me?”

“Yes! Yes, that one!”

“It’s there now.”

“It is?” McCree said, bursting with excitement. “Go and buy it for me, would you?”  
The boy looked at him incredulously.

“Really! Buy it, an’ tell ‘em to deliver it here, so I can tell ‘em where to take it. If you do that for me, I’ll give you a fifty!”

That was all he needed. The boy ran off like a shot.

“I’ll send it to the Shimadas! They’ll never guess who sent it.”

He quickly rummaged for a pen and paper to scrawl down the address, hardly able to steady his hand enough to make it legible. It seemed hardly any time had passed before he heard a knock at the door, which he quickly answered.

“Ah, there you are! Thank ya kindly! Good lord, what a turkey it is! You didn’t carry it all the way down here, did you? Here, I’ll call you a cab.”

He paid for the turkey, the delivery, the cab, and recompensed the boy all with a laugh and when it was done and he was alone once more he laughed some more until he nearly cried.

When he got a hold of himself, he rushed out the door, eager to get on with the day. By this time of day, people were pouring forth from every direction in the streets, just as the Ghost of Christmas Present showed him. He smiled broadly, regarding every person he passed with a nod. With sparkling eyes and a hop in his step, he looked so irresistibly pleasant that many who passed him bade him a good morning and merry Christmas, which he happily returned.

He hadn’t gone far when he saw a familiar figure, the portly gentleman who had visited him just the evening before. A pang of guilt beat in his heart knowing what this man must have thought of him, but he knew the path that lay before him, and without hesitation, took it.

“Mr. Lindholm!” McCree cried, quickening his pace and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. “How are ya? Hope you succeded yesterday. Quite kind of ya. And merry Christmas!”

“Mr. McCree?”

“Yes,” said McCree. “That’s m’name, though I’m afraid it probably ain’t pleasant to you. Allow me to ask yer pardon. And if you’d have the goodness—“ he stooped to whisper in his ear.

“Bless my soul!” he cried, breath nearly taken away. “Mr. McCree, are you serious?”

“If you could,” returned McCree with a nod. “And not a penny less! Would you do me that favour?”

“Mr. McCree,” he said, shaking his hands with rigour. “I don’t know what to say—“

“Don’t say anything at all,” he said with a wink. “Come and see me. You will come and see me, won’t you?”

“I will!” Mr. Lindholm cried, with a single nod.

“Thank’ee,” said McCree. “I’m in your debt. I thank you fifty times. Bless you!”

He walked about the streets, watching the people hurry to and fro, and patted children on the head as he went, and tipped beggars with coin, and saw through the windows the busy kitchens of many houses, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. Never had he thought that any walk—that anything—could give him such happiness. As he strolled, he turned his steps toward Lena’s house.

He passed the door a dozen times, pacing back and forth in hesitation, before he worked up the courage to knock. He did so before he could stop himself again.

“Hello?”

The voice belonged to a young woman with red hair, confusion worn on her face. Of course: she did not recognize him. Though he had seen her just the previous night, shown by the ghosts, they had yet to met. 

“You must be Emily!” McCree started, smiling warmly and holding his hat to his chest. “My name’s McCree. Forgive me for not introducing myself before.”

“Mc…Cree?” she mouthed the name to herself, brows fixed as she studied him. The realization dawned on her face and her brows shot up. “Oh! Yes, of course! Lena has told me so much about you. Please, come in.”

Her hesitance was evident in her voice—it was likely what she heard was not only good things, but likely still far more than what he deserved. 

“Lena’s out running a few errands, but should be home soon. Would you um, like some tea?”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

She got to work on heating up water in the kettle, and setting aside two mugs. An awkward silence fell over the two. McCree shifted in his seat, before rising to his feet, too antsy to keep his plans concealed any longer.

“Did Lena invite anyone else to dinner? She was always the type to share her joy.”

“Yes, actually,” said Emily. “Some neighbors, but they made their own plans. Why?”

“Well…” McCree walked over with a grin, and revealed his plan.

\-----

Hanzo shrugged on his coat, tying up his hair on the way out. He nearly stumbled in his attempts to walk while tying on his boots—he had to hurry. Shops wouldn’t be open for too much longer, and those that were were likely already sold out of Christmas geese. He just hoped he didn’t wake Genji with all the commotion—he badly needed rest.

Just as he started to reach for the door knob, he heard a knock. He furrowed his brows, perplexed, and opened the door to reveal a short man with a great white beard.

“Good morning…?”

“And a good morning to you as well, lad!” the man boomed, offering his hand to shake. “My name is Mr. Lindholm.”

Hanzo accepted, returning the gesture. “Hanzo.”

“Pardon any intrusion.”

“Not at all.”

“I am here to deliver a message from Mr. McCree.”

“Mr. McCree?” Hanzo felt his brows raise far up on his forehead. Surely he wouldn’t ask him to come into work today of all days?

But the man before him laughed. “No need to look so startled, lad! He merely asked me to deliver this.”

With that, the driver opened one of the doors and from it, produced the largest goose Hanzo had ever seen.

“Oh, my goodness. You are certain that Mr. McCree sent that?”

Lindholm laughed again. “Yes, he rather took me by surprise as well. He also asked if you and your family would join him to dinner. But should you refuse, the goose is still yours to keep.”

“I suppose I must, if he did such a gesture for me.” He paused to think. “This is all so unexpected.”

“Yes, yes, indeed. But if you accept, the driver is already well paid for!”

“I… I must wake my brother.”

“No rush!”

Hanzo let the two men inside his home, and called to Genji as he walked back toward his room. This was to be a Christmas he’d likely never forget.

\----

“I’m hooooome!”

Lena walked through the door with arms full of groceries. She nearly dropped them all at the sight she walked in on. Two men she’d never seen before, talking and laughing with Emily, and, wait, was that--?

“Jesse?”

“Lena!”

McCree rushed to greet her, and took the bags from her. “Here, let me help you.”

“You came! And brought…”

“Guests. Forgive me. I know it’s not my place to invite others, but I wanted… to do something special.”

“I… Wow.”

“Please, let me introduce you. This is Hanzo Shimada, my assistant. And this is his brother, Genji.”

Hanzo rose, bowing low. Genji waved and gave a nod.

“Forgive our intrusion,” said Hanzo. “I was not aware we had been invited without your knowledge.”

“Oh, it’s no worry! The more the merrier!” Lena said, hanging her coat and walking over to join them. “I just didn’t expect it, is all. But I suppose that’s what the season is all about. Surprises, coming together…” She sat next to Emily, who smiled at her and gave her a peck on the lips.

“If that ain’t the truest thing I’ve ever heard!” McCree bellowed. “Now, who wants to help me baste this thing?”

They all gather in the kitchen, setting to work: preparing the goose, slicing the vegetables, seasoning the sauce, mixing the batter. They talk and laugh—McCree has never felt lighter, and he is sure his heart is about to burst with joy of sharing company.

“Jesse, can I ask you something?” Lena asked.

“Shoot.”

“Why the change of heart? I mean, you were always so…” she drifted off, struggling to find polite wording.

“Bitter? Angry? Alone?”

“Well… Yeah.”

He sighed, stepping away from the saucepan to pause. “Let’s just say during the night I had… a bit of a revelation. I had a dream—no, a vision—that I had died, all alone, with no one in the world to care for me. I had realized, as I was, the world was better off without me.”

“Oh, Jesse.”

“All my life I isolated myself and slaved away at my work, but for what? Money? What good has money ever done for me? I never spent it. I never shared it. Gold is pretty, but it is cold. But company—that is warm.”

“I’m glad you came around,” Lena said, and hugged him. He smiled, wrapping his arms around her.

“Me too.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Ah, what the hell, c’mere!”

With that, he embraced Emily, who had just finished chopping. Taken off guard, she hadn’t had the time to return the gesture before he moved on to his next target.

Hanzo stiffened in his grasp, but reluctantly put his arms around McCree and gave him a timid pat on the back. He felt his face flush despite himself, but had nowhere to hide after McCree moved on to his brother.

“Alright, alright,” Genji said with a laugh. “I guess you’re not so bad. Can we drink now?”

 

\----

They finished the cooking, and ate while the dessert baked in the oven. It was a grand feast, and McCree couldn’t help but notice how spectacular company made food taste, and wondered if the Ghost of Christmas Present added his own personal touch on the dishes. 

He sat beside Hanzo, and the more they talked the more he regretted never having to get to know him all the years he had worked for him. Behind his polite and reserved exterior, he was sharply intelligent and quick witted, with a penchant for making McCree laugh so hard he nearly cried. His smile melted his heart, and by god, his own laugh was the most beautiful sound McCree had heard in all his years. He felt young again, like this, emboldened with the shared merriment and the sipping of wine, and somehow during the evening his fingers met Hanzo’s. He nearly burst when he squeezed back, beaming at him with a smile that McCree knew could keep him warm for the rest of the winter, and all winters to come.

They talked and laughed throughout the night, even danced, spinning to and fro without a care about skill or grace. Lena and Emily playfully bumped their hips together then took each other’s hands to give one another a twirl. McCree and Hanzo started off a bit more hesitantly at first, but as soon as they met the tension melted and before he knew it, McCree was being dipped backward with a startled gasp. Before he rose again, he pulled Hanzo down for a kiss, and they giggled after nearly falling over. Even Genji joined, spinning the wheels on his chair and dipping himself backward.

Finally it was time to part ways. Emily and Lena bid their three guests goodbye with a hug to keep them warm for the walk home. Genji, though the most exhausted from his theatrics, was the sorriest to go, but bid a cheerful farewell nonetheless.

“Merry Christmas, everyone!” he shouted, and McCree knew the young man would have many more Christmases to come.

McCree walked them home, arm linked with Hanzo’s the entire way. It was less cold, now, but still the slightest powdering of snow fell from the evening sky. But not a single spirit he saw that night--nor would he ever see again. And he would have no need to, for with each year that came, it was always said of him that no one kept Christmas closer to his heart than Jesse McCree. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Genji said, Merry Christmas, everyone!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! A very, very, very belated Merry Christmas.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter out of three or four of a fic that is a painfully obvious rip-off of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. I even copied some sentences from the short story word for word.
> 
> This is mostly for the hell of it, and as such it's kind of rushed and not at all edited. 
> 
> Of course, I doubt the entirety of the Overwatch cast is Christian or celebrates Christmas even in a secular fashion, but for the sake of this AU I stuck to the spirit of the original Dickens work, which does contain strong Christian themes.


End file.
